Snug in his oaken hermitage hard by.
A very rare conceit--the sexton's son!

Not he, forsooth; he smacked of churchyard mould
And musty odors of moth-eaten palls--
A living death, a walking epitaph!
No lover that for tingling flesh and blood
To rest soft cheek on and change kisses with.
Yet lover somewhere; from his sly cocoon
Time would unshell him. In the interim
What was to do but wait, and mark who strolled
Of evenings up the hill-path and made halt
This side the coppice at a certain gate?
For by that chance which ever serves ill ends,
Within the slanted shadow of The Towers
The maid Griselda dwelt. Her gray scarred sire
Had for cloth doublet changed the steel cuirass,
The sword for gardener's fork, and so henceforth
In the mild autumn and sundown of life,
Moving erect among his curves and squares
Of lily, rose, and purple flower-de-luce,
Set none but harmless squadrons in the field--
Save now and then at tavern, where he posed,
Tankard in hand and prattling of old days,
A white-mustached epitome of wars.

How runs the proverb touching him who waits?
Who waits shall have the world. Time's heir is he,
Be he but patient. Thus the thing befell
Wherefrom grew all this history of woe: